


I'll do whatever it takes to be the Mistake you can't live without

by stilinskisoul



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Investigation, M/M, POV Stiles, Protective Derek, Slice of Life, Stiles Stilinski in Trouble, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-02-22 01:45:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2489942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilinskisoul/pseuds/stilinskisoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"“Did you say <i>Derek Hale</i>?” Scott asks, giving Stiles a look like Stiles was lunatic or if he's ever been wrong about anything. He responds to Scott with a scowl on his own before nodding.</p><p>“No, you misheard me. I said Synyster Gates,” Stiles snaps.</p><p>“But he's—”</p><p>“I know who he is, Scott,” Stiles sighs in a resigning manner. Scott always misses the point, and Stiles should seriously quit putting any effort into making Scott get any of his sarcastic hints. “You just acted like I was talking about a rock star.”</p><p>“No, it's just...” Scott starts, but ends up trailing off. He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, warily worrying the flesh while examining Stiles' gestures, trying to read anything accessible information out of them. When he realizes there's no use, he gives up on trying with a long exhale of air. “It's just... he's not nice to anyone. And that's the less harsh version of interpreting it.”"</p><p>Stiles doesn't think Derek's different behaviour towards him has to do anything with the injured wolf in the backyard of the Stilinski house. Because what kind of connection could possibly be between the two events, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Time of Dying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there!
> 
> This is a story I'm going to write simultaneously with _Roses are thorny_. I know it's kind of a reckless idea, but I'm one of those helpless turbulent ones, who want to do everything immediately, partly because I don't want to let this idea go and partly because I have a bunch more ideas which I also want to write, so.
> 
> Unbeta'd, but I honestly hope you'll like this!

Stiles pulls up the Jeep in the driveway. He sighs deeply, then jumps out of the blue vehicle with his trained, characteristic movement. He closes the door of the car and heads into the house. The first thing he does is making a beeline to the kitchen to get some food for himself, but then he remembers that his Dad has a day shift, meaning there's no fresh food, and also, it's garbage day today.

After persuading himself into cooking, he checks on the contents of the fridge. He makes a few mental notes on what he needs to buy, then goes for the Jeep again, leaving the house once more.

He drives to the grocery store, parks in the lot and goes inside, mentally going over the list of the needed things over and over again to make sure he won't forget to buy any of them. He collects everything and lays the stuff on his cradled arm. While approaching the cash register, the pile of books catches his attention. He can't help but go and check on them. He roams his sight over them, absently stroking the spine of a book with the tips of his index and middle finger of his free hand. Stiles isn't particularly paying attention to the book until he finished ogling the others. When his eyes find the book he's been constantly touching, though, all of his previous plans on not buying anything besides what he _does_ need vanish in a mere blink of an eye.

He groans, mutters something similar to 'oh, you know what, fuck it' under his breath and picks the novel from the shelf. He has never been the type to do impulsive shopping, but he's been waiting for a story—a noir, in fact—about a detective with a companion which is a _wolf_. Stiles honestly has no idea how that came to his mind in the first place, but he's always been a creative guy. Maybe he's just tired of the cliché about dogs being the companions of the police.

Also, he's tried countless times to write his own story with that plot idea, but never quite managed to do it well enough for himself to be satisfied about it. Not that he would ever admit to anyone his author ambitions. He's not at all that good, and no one would be interested in his weird ideas, plots and awkward, complicated writing style.

He pays for the food and the book, then heads home. He can't stand sneaking a few glances over at the book on the passenger seat while driving. His palms are practically itching to start reading it, but he reminds himself relentlessly that he still needs to cook _and_ study for school. Screw it that today _of course_ has to be a Thursday.

Stiles sets up the cooking process, starting with putting everything on the kitchen counter in order. He begins peeling the potatoes, continues with slicing up the sausage and ends with cutting the two onions into tiny bits. His eyes are in pain and his face is moist by his tears and running nose by the time he finishes. He sets a pot on the stove and puts all the pieces of onions and sausage in it. A while later he pours some water on it and adds the potatoes along with a little amount of red minced paprika.

While he lets it cook, he tosses everything into the bin before hauling out the plastic pocket and tying a knot on it for the sake of closing it up completely. Stiles heads to the back door, that is in the kitchen and which leads to the backyard only to find it closed.

Oh yeah, he remembers his Dad telling him something about a new murderer in town. Of course they have to be more cautious.

With an exasperated sigh, he drops the pocket and goes to grab his set of keys from the pocket of his jacket he wore today. Once he got it, he opens the door and puts the pocket into the big main bin. He wipes his hand into the cherry blossom-pink coloured cloth he's wearing (he always has it on when he has to do something in the kitchen, and it has a yellow baby chicken on it), preparing himself to manhandle it to the front of the house so the garbage car can empty it seamlessly, but. But he hears rustling from the edge of their backyard.

An icy chill runs down his spine—what if it's the killer? He could just shove himself through the door to get back inside the house before something nasty happens—

Then there comes a whine, cutting his trail of thought. If anything, that catches his attention. He would know better than to walk into such an obvious trap that could have been set up by the murderer, but Stiles also knows that sound wasn't something human-made. It was definitely an _animal_.

He instantly forgets about the novel he's been eager to read.

The pained wheeze comes again from somewhere among the grass and Stiles finds himself already approaching the source of the sounds. When he gets close enough he has to fight back a half startled, half excited yelp. His hand flies to his mouth, sticking on it to prevent any noise that's threatening to break free from there.

_A wolf._

There's a wolf at the _sheriff_ 's backyard. Stiles hopes everyone gets the irony. His steps are now much more wary, and he creeps his way closer to the animal in an eerie awe. He takes his time to examine the black-furred body lying among the golden autumn leaves. It's nearly the middle of the fall, after all.

When he's sure the wolf _is_ injured, and probably not strong enough to tear off any of his limbs (maximum giving him a serious bite here and there), he slowly crouches next to it. The wolf's eyes are closed and the quick puffs of breath it's taking kind of remind Stiles of the asthma attacks Scott has on a regular basis.

Stiles hesitantly extends his hand after an amount of time just staring at the weak, vulnerable body; however, it ends up hovering over the animal warily for another minute before actually _touching_ , testing waters.

Stiles' eyes are fixed firmly on the wolf's, figuring if an attack is about to occur, he'll at least know about it immediately.

But the wolf's eyes stay closed even as Stiles' pale fingers meekly stroke through the surprisingly soft fur. Stiles has to admit, he was expecting a harsher feeling to get. He takes grim satisfaction in being able to _pet a wolf_.

His gaze involuntarily slides to the animal's again, and when he finds the eyes closed still, he starts to seriously worry about the wolf's condition. He bites his lip, considering if he should take it to Deaton, but then he decides against it, reminding himself that it's a _stray_ animal, and, last but not in the least, the _#1 predator_ of the lands.

“Hey, buddy,” he murmurs in a delicate tone, strongly willing for the wolf to open its eyes already. He can feel his pulse fastening in macabre fright that this stunning animal will die. “Hey, look at me, come on.” He prays in his mind that he's not too late to help. Stiles keeps begging, his tone turning more and more desperate as the time is passing away.

Finally, when he whispers a plead directly into the wolf's ear, its eyes open up weakly. Stiles can't help he wide grin that crosses his face. However, it disappears immediately when the animal closes them again. “No, buddy, listen to my voice. Stay with me. You have to stay with me...” his voice goes hoarse and lapses at the end. But apparently, his tries are worth it, because the wolf reunites their gazes and holds his in an obvious struggle. Stiles pats the animal's shoulder gently in a compliment.

“There you go. Just don't lose my voice, okay? Hold onto it, so you won't sink into the black void of unconsciousness,” he says, but then snorts. “God, I should seriously quit speaking as if I was a character in my writing,” he rolls his eyes in an exaggerated move, then looks down at the wolf. The air is still coming out of its being in hot, heavily forced puffs. It makes Stiles more worried. He strokes his hand over the wolf's head in an affectionate movement, his amber irises roaming all over the animal's muzzle and face in general.

“Really, what has happened to you?” Stiles doesn't have an idea why he even asked, since it's a commonly accepted fact that animals are unable to speak. He just felt the urge to do so. For some reason the animal in front of him isn't a mere wolf for him, but more than that: a living, breathing creature that deserves proper treatment—either for its wounds and generally.

Stiles is stroking the wolf's head, but stops abruptly after a while and says, “I need to go get some stuff for you,” he stands, but doesn't fail to remind the wolf, “ Don't dare close your eyes or quit breathing while I'm away, got it? I want you alive when I'm back.” He's well aware that his bossy behaviour doesn't make sense, but his amount of adrenaline has increased lightly.

He makes a mad dash into the house, shuts off the fire under the food (thankfully it's done by now), then goes to collect all the materials those could be useful and come in handy for treating the wolf.

Stiles ignores his book.

He rushes back to the yard, going straightly to the animal. Stiles drops to his knees without thinking about it twice and opens up the first aid kit. Instead of picking anything from it, though, he turns to the wolf. He bites his lip before speaking up again.

“Look, I'm sure you won't like this, but apparently I'm going to have to move you around a bit to check on your wounds, okay? Try not to bite me, thank you very much.” He continues looking at the wolf for a while, but then leans closer and runs his hands over the animal's body. At first he doesn't find anything, but when he turns the heavy creature around as carefully as he possibly can do it to make it lay on its already checked wound-free side, his eyes dart to the dirty dark spot on the shiny black fur in an instant. The clotted substance is sticking the velvet soft fur together in thick disgusting strands. On top of it, a hideous, almost black wound is peeking out from among the jungle of fur. Stiles' stomach jumps and makes a few somersaults.

He's not feeling sick because of the wound itself, but because of the sheer thought he has to _stitch_ it. Yep, he definitely doesn't want to be a doctor. He can deal with the sight of a corpse, but his hands start shaking whenever he has to do something with _someone else's_ wound.

He swallows hard against the lump in his throat and mumbles clumsily, in a hollow tone, “Here we go, buddy,” he says, reaching toward the kit. After roaming around in it, he pulls his hands out, holding the antibacterial spray and some pieces of cotton. When he steals another glance at the wolf, he could swear he recognizes the 'are you even sure what you're doing'-look in the animal's eyes. Before he could think it through, he snaps. “I've done it already numerous times, okay? Don't look at me like that! My Dad's the sheriff, y'know. I hope you get the reference,” he mumbles the last sentence in a slightly pissed manner while strewing the antibacterial substance on the cotton piece. He sets the bottle on the ground, then after steadying himself on his thigh with his free hand, he leans close again.

“This may hurt a little,” he warns, then adds, “Please, still don't bite me. This rule is something that's valid in any kind of situation, okay? Okay,” he agrees with himself with a nod, not really waiting for a response. In fact, all of his questions are rhetorical, and he feels like he was talking to himself during the whole time, but he fights the thought of him behaving like a psychosomatic and focuses his attention entirely on the treatment.

The wolf's body jerks when the cotton touches its skin, and it also snarls at Stiles, but the boy merely says, “Told you, buddy.” As if nothing happened, he continues the disinfecting. Stiles is given a few more growls, snarls and death glares from the wolf during the process, which Stiles assumes the wolf means as threats, but he couldn't care less about that when everything he's doing is for nobody's but the wolf's good.

Just when he's managed to insert the thread into the tiny hole of the needle, his HTC goes off in the pocket of his jeans. Stiles doesn't miss the way the wolf's ears move reflexively. Despite the circumstances and the animal's bad condition, it chases a smile on his face, somehow.

“Yes?” he starts, squeezing his phone between his shoulder and his right cheek so he doesn't have to interrupt the treatment.

“I need to stay overnight,” comes his Dad's voice from the other end of the line.

“Oh,” Stiles says. “How come?”

“We may or may not have found an important evidence.”

“Oh,” Stiles says intelligently again. That's the maximum he can offer at the moment. Besides, he's never been good at splitting his attention—aside from ADHD.

“Okay. See you then tomorrow?”

“Yes,” his Dad says. There's a short silence settling in in the conversation before the sheriff asks, “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, why wouldn't be?” Stiles asks, frowning at his phone a bit. He clenches his teeth tightly to tear the thread, making sure his cell phone doesn't fall down while he does so.

“You're unusually quiet.” Oh. _Oh._ Oh, that's true. He should have seen that one coming.

“No, I'm fine, really, just—” he trails off for a split second, glancing down at the wolf. “homework,” he finishes. “You know, just the usual crap.”

“Which includes...?” his Dad urges.

“Colouring my Chemistry book with highlighters,” he blurts out immediately without even having to think about what to say. The sheriff sighs soundly and obviously at the other end of the line.

“Just avoid pink,” he pleads reluctantly in a half resentful, half resigning way, then says goodbye and hangs up on Stiles.

Stiles has never been so glad before for his Dad having to stay away.

He looks down at the animal again, who availably looks better by now, even if just a little bit, and groans.

“Don't give me that judging look! That was just a half lie, okay? I _do_ colour my Chemistry book with highlighters, and I couldn't have admitted that I was taking care of a _wolf_ , okay?” he flails his hands around, putting audible emphasis on the most important keyword.

Half an hour passes by, and he finishes the treatment. Stiles won't lie, he's pretty proud of himself for being able to handle an impromptu emergency situation with the client actually looking better than worse. The air has already turned dark halfway when he starts packing up everything. He goes indoors, grabs two bowls and sets them on the ground in front of the wolf. One is filled with the food he cooked a while ago, while the other contains water.

The wolf eyes both with a distrustful look on its face, but Stiles doesn't take them away. Instead, he dares to move close to the animal's body once more to pet its head. It jerks its head away, but Stiles stubbornly chases it with his hand and scratches the skin behind the wolf's ear anyway. When the animal realizes there's nothing it can do against Stiles' relentless outburst of affection, it lets itself to be petted.

Stiles then heads inside and does his homework. He makes sure to go over the Theoretical Economics curriculum twice, since Coach promised to check on their knowledge the next day in some ways. Once he's finished, he goes for the bathroom, but takes his time to check on the wolf outside.

It's gone.

Before he would continue his way to the bathroom, he puts down his towel and leaves the house in order to bring the bowls back inside. He didn't want to do that with a heated body temperature in a chilly evening. The two just doesn't quite fit together in his head.

After the shower, Stiles idly peeks at their backyard again. His heart rate slows down, winding down from the wave of excitement that flooded his whole body. The wolf is gone and won't come by ever again. The most he can do is to pray for it to be safe. Pathetic as that sounds, longing fills him to the brim simply by thinking about that fact. He sighs in a resigning manner, then makes sure everything is carefully closed before making a beeline back to his bedroom. Stiles reads a book, and only quits doing it when his eyelids feel heavy and his eyes are stinging due to intoxicating drowsiness. He switches off the lamp and wills himself to fall asleep, but fails at it and ends up twisting and turning in his bed constantly. When he's fed up, he migrates to the kitchen to drink a glass of water. As if on an instinct, he glances outside with the glass in his hands.

The wolf is there.


	2. Not strong enough (to stay away)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains mentions from _Star Wars_ , so if you haven't seen it you might find some spoilers.
> 
> Unbeta'd. Enjoy! :)

The next morning Stiles wakes up with the book plastered out on his chest, some of its pages crumpled and one half-thorn. He groans when he lifts the book and makes this discovery, then places it on his nightstand with exceptional carefulness, though he knows there's no use crying over spilt milk. The only thing he's grateful for, though, is that it's not the one he bought yesterday, so his precious noir is not harassed. Yet.

He swings his legs over the edge of his bed, touching his bare feet to the floor of his room while his palm rubs over his sleepy face. The very first thing that floods his mind is the wolf he met yesterday. He instantly starts wondering if the animal is okay and if it has managed to find a shelter for itself until its pack finds it—if it actually has one in the first place.

Even the thought of today being Friday doesn't seem to be enough to make Stiles motivated to the extent to get up, so he ends up face-first clunk out on his bed again. As a result, he oversleeps and jerks awake two hours late. He considers not going to school at all at his point, but something moves deeply in him uncomfortably at that momentary thought—he assumes it is probably his conscience.

After finally standing on his own feet, he makes a beeline to his window to peek through the shutters. The backyard is empty, obviously, he doesn't even know what he was expecting. To see the wolf there? Oh, no, he's not that naïve. No, definitely not.

But he's still disappointed.

Today Stiles makes a revelation, which says oversleeping (and sneaking out of the house without waking his Dad who just _happens_ to be the sheriff himself) is beneficial because he escapes Harris' classes and doesn't have to be the vulnerable prey of that man's relentless remarks about him. Stiles put a foot in his mouth and dared to fight back _once_ , back when he was a freshman. He's never committed such an enormous mistake ever again.

When he enters the institution the picture of Lydia and Jackson making out welcomes him, which is cool, because—

Well, in fact it's not, but there's nothing he could do about it. He's been constantly trying and simultaneously failing at making Lydia fall for him, what should he expect now in his senior year? He has to get a grip and fall back down to Earth, even if that means being hurt. Because in his opinion, reality is better than any beautiful lie, and the truth should always be acknowledged.

He walks pass them and decides to make an attempt to try to find Scott.

Stiles' after school program consists of lacrosse practice (in terms of warming the bench in his case), doing the shopping afterwards, then going home. There are still some leftovers of the food he cooked yesterday, so he eats half of it, making sure to leave some for his Dad, too. He's always starved when he arrives, just like Stiles himself. After a brief consideration Stiles places the two bowls into their backyard again, both reloaded with food and fresh water. Yesterday the wolf emptied both, so if it happens to come by again, it will have the opportunity to refill its stomach.

But the thing is, the wolf doesn't pay a visit again.

The entire weekend passes monotonously and without any interesting events. Probably the most exciting part is that Stiles has started to write his own novel at last— _(Not all) Wolves are docile_ was given to it as a title. He spends his Saturday watching _Star Wars_ and reading _The flash of a Predator's eyes_ , the noir he bought on Thursday. He finishes half of the book, and if he says he's totally coaxed by it, he's not close to the truth at all. He also loves the fact that the title has a symbol in it—the Predator. Of course, everyone would think of the wolf at first, but it actually refers to the murderer, and Stiles loves this idea.

Also, the book doesn't contain a love story, which Stiles is grateful for. Love is the very last thing he needs right now, because there is school, his aims and ambitions to achieve in connection with his future, his book to write (for himself, because he's clearly not going to share it with anyone. So then why is he still writing? Because it makes him happy), Scott to land a helping hand to, forgetting about Lydia, and... Well.

There is also _Him._

Stiles has noticed a guy permanently showing up wherever he goes nowadays, and no, Stiles is definitely not paranoid. He's literally _everywhere_ , and it creeps Stiles out. On the other hand, however, Stiles is also ignoring this matter of a fact. It can't be more than mere coincidence. Okay, sure, his Dad's opinion on coincidences is still echoing in his head, and it was based on several years' experience, _but still_. There's just no freaking way that such a man would take interest in Stiles. And if the impossible did happen, Stiles would be wondering in which pyjamas of his was he dreaming so sweetly torturous and nice a dream.

He has also started convincing himself into forgetting about the wolf. It visited him once, and is now gone for good. Stiles knows that it never once came back during the weekend, because he spent a sad amount of time sitting in front of his window just staring at the edge of their backyard every night before finally going to bed. He's seriously pitying himself for longing so hard for his solitary to end. He should just accept it and that would be it.

The problem is that it's easier said than done.

On Monday, he goes to the McCall house first to pick up Scott. The boy's motorbike suddenly died on Sunday when he was about to go to Allison's.

“Really?” Stiles asks. “So what happened then?”

“I called her and told her we could postpone it to the next weekend, but she said she'd come for me, so,” he says, shrugging sheepishly. Stiles knows him well. Too well, in fact, so he can bug Scott just a little bit.

“Can I assume some _private_ things happened that you can't share with me either?” Scott perks up at that.

“No!” he exclaims, but then hesitantly, quietly adds, “I mean... maybe. But I would totally share it with you if you wanted me to, you know, because you're my best friend.” Stiles chuckles.

“Okay, dude, chill out. I know that,” he says to ease on Scott's nervousness. Scott huffs.

“If I got a coin every time you said you knew something...” Stiles smirks.

“You know I'm always right.”

“Not always,” Scott corrects.

“Okay, I admit I'm not right when I'm wrong, but you know there are two rules,” he says seriously with a wicked smile, and Scott availably pays more attention to what he has to say. “Rule one: I'm always right,” Stiles says, counting on his fingers awhile.

“And what is rule two?” Stiles' grin widens.

“If I'm wrong, refer to rule one.”

“Hey!” Scott says, though he's already laughing, and punches Stiles' biceps half-heartedly.

“Besides, you're supposed to be agreeing with me on that, man. You make me feel sad,” Stiles says, making pouty lips and huge amber eyes at Scott momentarily, before turning his face back towards the road.

As they enter the school building, Scott instantly goes to find Allison. They have their first period together, and Stiles has his with Lydia _and_ Jackson. And if that wasn't enough, it's going to be _Chemistry_ with all of its benefits—including the teacher.

This is a long day for Stiles. He has to give an oral presentation about the benzene ring and about organic chemistry in general, with some questions concerning the four main materials those can be found in the human body: nucleic acids, carbohydrates, proteins and lipids. (He's honestly glad he's good in Biology.) Stiles doesn't have his luck with him during Coach's class, either, because they write a test about the SNA system, including some calculating tasks, not just theoretical ones.

Stiles also makes a mental note for himself to finish his essay for Social Studies about psychoanalysis and behaviourism, but he has to read some more books in order to do that. He wants that essay to be flawless, and he's already halfway ready, but he needs more time for the research part.

Eventually, the part of the day that he has to spend at school passes away, and he finds himself home again. He has lunch, then after loading the dirty dishes into the dishwasher, he allows himself a peek outside. Yes, he's supposedly in the middle of the _forgetting_ process, but it's not something that can be easily done, okay? Don't blame him.

He does his homework, then re-watches a _Star Wars_ film, sprawled out on the couch with his limbs everywhere awhile, and with the remote control laying on his chest along with a bowl of popcorn on his stomach. When the sheriff arrives, he decides not to pay too much attention to the sinister situations in the living room. The man lets out an exaggerated sigh.

“Clean up the popcorn from the floor, Stiles. I'm not going in there until it's not spick and span clean.”

“Sure, Dad,” he says, lifting his hand up above the back of the couch to wave for his father. His eyes never leave the screen, though. The man exhales sharply again.

“You've seen this movie a thousand times.” No reply. “Clean up by the time I finish eating dinner,” he says, then leaves for the kitchen to invade the fridge.

Stiles doesn't begin the task he was given until he can hear his Dad loading his plate into the dishwasher. Then, Stiles jumps up from his comfortable place and starts to frantically collect the pieces of corn from the rug and the parquet. By the time his father is back with a cup of steaming coffee in his hand, Stiles is miraculously ready with cleaning up and grins at his Dad. The man rolls his eyes at his son, but there is fondness in the gesture, not chiding.

“Guess I'm leaving now,” Stiles says, scratching his nape. The sheriff nods as he tries to find the best spot on the couch to relax. “Enjoy the sports-whatever you watch.” The man snorts instead of a laugh.

“Thanks, kiddo. Night.”

“To you, too,” he replies, then leaves his Dad alone to let him watch his show in silence. He takes a quick shower, then goes to bed with the noir. Despite its nasty contents, he never has a nightmare by it. Hell, he's interested in seeing corpses and in investigations, and he wants to work in law enforcement once he's an adult and out of college, so it would suck if he couldn't bear these things and couldn't handle the blood-covered pictures he has in his head.

He has a tight slumber during the night, however, the conscious part of his brain vaguely registers that his eyes twitch. He groans in a low tone then shifts in his bed, tugging the blanket over himself again. Somehow it got halfway down from his bed and his body while he was asleep, leaving him shivering modestly from brief coldness. He mumbles something and rearranges his head on his pillow, ready to drift off to sleep again, but then he hears the sound again.

_A bark._

His eyes fly open in that very moment and he jerks up into a sitting position with his gaze darted firmly on the shutters over his window. He thought he only heard it in his dreams, not in reality. He waits for a few seconds, though, just to make sure. Then it comes again. And again. And again, and the wannabe-barks sound gradually more and more pretentious, desperate and headstrong. And also louder. He shrieks and launches off his bed straightly to his window. He drags the shutters up and opens it. When he finally sees the wolf, relief spreads within him.

However, the first thing he does is shushing it.

“Silence!” he exclaims, though his voice isn't above a whisper. “My Dad will wake up! I'll be down in a minute.” One more bark comes as a reply, which sends jolts of chills all over Stiles' body, but it sounds as an approval to his suggestion. Maybe Stiles is imagining things now. A wolf can't communicate, can't understand what he says, at least not if it is stray and has hardly ever been near humans—or a human who talks to it instead of trying to hunt it down.

He puts on his red hoodie and a pair of sports shoes before grabbing his set of keys and going outdoors through the back door after checking on his Dad. If the loud snoring is of any indication, the man is deeply asleep, so Stiles has a free way out. He also checks the time on his phone—it shows 2:17 in the morning.

The animal takes off to run towards him before he could take two full steps. The option of it intending to attack him doesn't even cross his head. Stiles trusts the wolf enough not to presume such things. When they are close enough he couches down and opens his arms to welcome it in his affectionate embrace. The animal's warm body is a perfect contrast to the cold air in which Stiles' hot breaths are availably floating upwards to the dark night sky. To his biggest surprise, the wolf willingly snuggles into him and rubs its muzzles to both sides of his neck—last time it was trying its hardest to avoid his stroking hands or any sign of affection he showed.

Not that he's complaining.

“Hey, buddy, you missed me, didn't you,” he says. His smile is audible in his tone and he turns his head so his cheek rubs against the wolf's neck, too. A while later, he lets go and says, “Lemme check you out.” Before doing that, though, his attention is drawn to his dirtied pyjama pants. “Oh my God, I'm totally screwed now, look at what you've done,” he chides the wolf while pointing at his pants.

The wolf makes a face at him, which Stiles could swear is a deadpan face, then the animal struts directly close to him and snuggles _purposefully_ into his pants. Stiles groans, but doesn't take too long to accept it. If this is the way the wolf wants to show its affection towards him, then be it, he's all for it. He scratches the back of the animal's ears fondly with a dazed smile on his face.

“Okay, you totally love me, I get it,” he chuckles. “Thing is, I love you, too. Where have you been, by the way? I've been waiting for you all this time, y'know. You should have come by more frequently.” The wolf just looks at him and he can't help the involuntary smile that widens onto his face as he drops his head. He's pathetic.

When he looks up again, he can see the animal with its cocked head to the side, eyeing him curiously. He gives it another smile and strokes his palm over the lightly damp fur. Probably it's the remainder sign of the previous rain, along with the moist blades of grass under their bodies.

“Considering you came back,” he speaks up again, earning the animal's attention by it, “maybe I should name you.” He thinks for a few seconds before breaking the permanent concert the cicadas and crickets are offering.

“How about Sour Wolf?” The wolf makes an unimpressed face at him and Stiles can't help but laugh out loud at that picture. “I totally love it, it fits you. See? You should take a look at yourself now, then you'd get it.” The wolf is still staring him down, but he's used to that—Jackson and Mr. Harris do that all the time, so you could say he's trained.

Stiles decides to change the topic. “You know, I bought a book on Thursday, the first day I met you, and there is a quote from the author in the book which says 'If you don't find the book you want on the shelf, write it', and imagine, I started to write my own story,” he babbles enthusiastically, and Sour Wolf's eyes seem to be bigger than they were a little while ago. Stiles hopes it's because the animal is interested in what he has to say and not amused at how stupidly Stiles looks with his passionately flailing hands.

“Also, since you can't tell me what you've been doing, let me just tell you the tale of my days,” he says with a shit-eating grin. Apparently, he enjoys that there is someone who listens to whatever he has to say without interrupting him even once. “Apart from the books, you know, _The flash of a Predator's eyes_ and _(Not all) Wolves are docile_ , I watched _Star Wars_. I love the scene where Darth Vader tells Luke that he was his father. Luke's reaction is priceless!” he says, already fighting back a laugh-attack. “He's like 'No. No. NO!' and then he lets go of that bridge and falls down. Funny thing is, that Vader told the truth to Luke after cutting off his right hand, so,” he shrugs. There is merely a two-second-long silence between them before something else comes to his mind. “And there is a Volkswagen commercial about a little guy who has a Darth Vader costume on and ever since I've seen it I can't take seriously Vader's supposedly terrifying and sinister theme song!” And that's it, Stiles can no longer suppress his laugher. “Oh my God, you should totally watch it!”

His laughter is cut off by Sour Wolf—the animal struts directly into his personal space and nuzzles its whole body into Stiles'. The boy is caught off-guard by it, but before he could even think about it, his arms fly around the wolf's body and closes the furry warmth into a loving embrace, squeezing gently, just enough to show the other how much he's attracted.

“Why are you acting like a Snuggle Bug, buddy?” he asks with fondness in his voice. When the wolf comes to a stop, and isn't nuzzling his muzzle into his neck anymore, he closes his eyes and listens to the low growling sound coming from the animal's body. Stiles sighs contently and wraps his arms lightly tighter around Sour Wolf. “Me too. I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone wondered what commercial was mentioned, here's a link to it: [Darth Vader Volkswagen commercial](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R55e-uHQna0).
> 
> I hope you liked chapter 2!


	3. Sins of the Wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a little Stilinski family feels at the beginning. But just a _little_ , really, nothing serious. :)
> 
> Unbeta'd. Enjoy!

The very first thing Stiles hears the next morning is his Dad saying, “What the Hell did you do?” It's enough for him to jerk awake and thus, land face-first on the floor of his room. He groans and rubs his scalp as he looks up at his father with an opened drowsy eye.

“What?” he manages out on a hoarse tone eventually. The sheriff sighs, and it makes clear for Stiles that he's pissed. Not the usual 'I'm pissed at you son, because you did something unforgivable', but the 'I'm _seriously_ pissed at you son, because you most likely did something reckless'-pissed. Stiles blinks at him with huge, innocent amber eyes.

“What do you mean by 'what'?” his Dad asks, raging on. “You know exactly what I'm talking about!” he says and lifts up Stiles' muddy pyjama pants from last night. “I'm expecting an explanation to _this_!”

Oh. Stiles can do explanation. The truth is that after he finished babbling about random topics to Sour Wolf and managed to persuade the animal into eating at least a little amount of food, they played a little in the backyard. When Stiles announced that he should go back to sleep, it was already 4:03. And when Sour Wolf heard that, he ran straightly to Stiles merely to snuggle into him all over again. Stiles can still feel the ghostly touch of Sour Wolf's muzzle rubbing to his neck.

Instead of the truth, though, he only says, “Um... I was sleepwalking?”

The sheriff eyes him for a rather long while, apparently struggling to decide whether his son is lying or telling the truth. When he exhales a long breath, Stiles knows he's won. But what surprises him is that his Dad doesn't leave his room just yet. Moreso, enters and nears his bed, sitting down on its edge. Stiles manhandles himself into a more or less comfortable position, then focuses his attention on his Dad.

“Are you okay?” the man asks. Stiles doesn't see where that's coming from.

“Sure,” he says easily, adding a shrug. The sheriff shakes his head.

“No. I mean...” he trails off. He clenches his jaw, obviously fighting something inside him, and at this point, Stiles starts to have a vague idea of what is going to be said in a few moments. “Are you _all right_?” Stiles has to swallow hard against a newly formed lump in his throat.

“Sure, Dad,” he nods, and since he's begun to feel ridiculous by being halfway sprawled out on the floor during a heart-to-heart conversation, he hauls himself off the ground and crawls back onto his bed. He puts himself into a sitting position next to his Dad before he continues his reply. “Nothing like... _that_. Guess I'm just sensitive to the Moon phases.”

There is a short silence, then his father surrenders with a squeeze on Stiles' knee. “Okay. But let me know immediately if something is up. Got it, kiddo?”

“Yep,” Stiles assures. At first he thinks it won't be enough for his Dad, but the man stands and takes off towards his door. However, just before he would leave his room, he turns back halfway.

“Have a good day at school,” he says, then leaves ultimately.

Stiles doesn't make a move—not until he can hear the front door open and the squad car leaving the driveway. Then, he makes a beeline to the bathroom. While he's busy eating the breakfast his Dad cooked, Stiles plots out the scenario of his day.

After school he drives to the grocery store to do the shopping. A smile appears on his face when his eyes find the pile of books again, remembering how lucky he was to find the noir there. Stiles pays for the ingredients he collected, then goes home. He prepares an easy soup, and while that's being cooked, he begins making pancakes.

In the first few attempts all of the pancakes are thorn, but soon he gets the hang of it and manages to throw them up with ease and confidence—and nailing it. A song is played quietly as a background noise, because Stiles isn't exactly the type to accept eternal silence around him.

Then there's a scratch on the back door.

He perks up and looks at the door, but doesn't make further moves—not until he can hear the well-known wannabe-bark, this time being faintly suppressed by the layer between Stiles and Sour Wolf. Stiles looks back at the skillet he's holding with his hand.

“What am I supposed to do now?” he cries out, his eyes constantly commuting between the stove and the source of the sounds. “I can't leave it here halfway done,” he points out the obvious to himself. On the other hand, though, he doesn't want to let Sour Wolf down, either. Which leads to the conclusion that the best choice is for him to let the wolf enter the house.

He fights every thought that protests against this idea, screaming that if Dad finds it out he's so dead. That's right. _If._ He just has to be careful, and make sure no sign is left behind. Besides, probably Sour Wolf can handle eating one or two pancakes. Because everyone likes pancakes, and for Stiles the term 'everyone' covers wolves, too. He slides the freshly cooked one on the plate as well, then goes to open the door.

“Hey, boy,” he chuckles, welcoming the wolf in his familiar warm embrace. He lets the animal to rub its muzzle into his neck again. Stiles honestly has no idea why Sour Wolf has such a serious neck fixation, but he doesn't think there is any intention behind it, so he just lets it happen with a wide grin. “Seems like you can't handle being away from me for so long, huh,” he rubs their noses together while he meekly holds the wolf's face between his hands. “Hardly half a day has passed since the last time you saw me.”

An approving growling sound is all the response he gets.

The wolf goes back to nuzzling into his neck. It only quits doing it after it sniffed Stiles' neck and found everything alright there. Meanwhile Stiles is completely oblivious to this, because his mind is too busy dealing with the thought of the stove.

“Hey, buddy, sorry, but I have some work to do. Mind waiting here?” he asks, looking deeply into the wolf's eyes. Be it his imagination or not, he's sure he knows what he wolf would want to answer him. “Cool,” he offers a grin again before standing up and grabbing another plate. He puts two pancakes on it and places it on the floor, in front of the animal. As oppose to the first time, instead of examining it for a trap with a great amount of doubt, Sour Wolf immediately dives in and starts to eat. Stiles doesn't fail to notice this little detail, and smiles at it contently before continuing the cooking process.

For a while there is comfortable silence between them—it's only broken dully by the song that's still quietly played on Stiles' phone and the soft clinks the plate makes against the floor of the kitchen. Stiles hums in a low tone as he slides another cooked pancake onto the top of the pile he's already done. He's pouring oil into the skillet when Sour Wolf starts to nose on the curve of his knee from behind. A smile instantly shines up on his face at the feeling, then he turns around and crouches down to be on the same eye-level with the wolf.

“What is it, Sour Wolf? What do you want?” he whispers the last sentence, his amber gaze trapped in the wolf's pale green one. The wolf licks its mouth with its long tongue twice. Stiles assumes he got the hint. “Oh,” he says intelligently, then thumbs over his shoulder at the sink. “Thirsty?”

A nod is his reply.

He's immediately up on his feet. Stiles picks up the wolf's usual water-bowl from the dishwasher and floods it with water before placing it down. While the wolf is lapping at the transparent, refreshing substance, Stiles starts talking again.

“There is a guy,” he starts, “who's constantly showing up wherever I go. I have no idea who he is, and I know it should freak me out on the most part, but you know, I kinda want to know who that is? Just not to creep out _myself_ , I guess?” he shrugs. “Anyway, you know, I told you about my story that I've been writing, right?” The wolf keeps lapping, apparently not even bothered to react in any way. Stiles decides it means Sour Wolf is thirsty and not tired of his shit. “So the thing is that I'm writing the third chapter, and this is the first time the detective meets the wolf. I'm planning to give 'Oooh, the ears' to it as a title.” At that, Sour Wolf looks up at him, but only to give him a deadpan face. Stiles can't help but laugh out loud hysterically at the absurdity of the situation—there is no way the wolf understands _exactly_ what he's saying.

Maybe it's the sleep deprivation from last night.

Stiles rubs the bridge of his nose, then his eyes, then he stands up and goes back to the stove to finish cooking. In a matter of a few minutes he does finish, and switches off the fire under both the pot and the skillet. He sets the table for himself and gives two more pancakes to Sour Wolf before he himself starts to eat his own share of food.

The two of them eat in comfortable silence, until it's cut off by the doorbell. Sour Wolf's ears perk up due to the sound, and the animal looks at the front door with a firm gaze. It doesn't make the slightest move when Stiles stands, but it does snarl when he heads towards the door. Stiles shushes it and bridges the remainder distance between himself and the door.

“Who's that?” he asks.

“Me,” comes the response. Stiles' eyes widen and he makes a mad dash back to the kitchen at that very second. He tries to shoo Sour Wolf out, but no matter how much he's goading, the animal stays put at its place, eyes still darted at the closed door. “Are you letting me in or what?”

“I am, just a second!” Stiles says, then, in a whisper, he turns to the wolf. “You're not going? Fine. But take responsibility for your decisions, okay? So act like an obedient puppy—and keep in mind that it's my house, my rules, buddy.”

And with that, he launches back to the door after he shut off the song on his cell phone. Stiles practically tears the door open, and the maximum he can offer is a nervous, awkward lopsided smile.

“Hey, Erica, how you doin'?” he asks, but the blonde girl's facial expression remains as unimpressed as it has been.

“Came to do the project with you, obviously,” she says, then, not even waiting for an invitation, enters the house. There is unmistakably a huge amount of sass in all of her movements.

“Yeah, sure,” Stiles says, closing the door. He scratches his nape anxiously as he follows the girl back into the kitchen. “Gimme two seconds, I need to bring my laptop here,” he offers, but then it occurs to him that probably it would be a far better idea to bring everything upstairs, where they are not in the kitchen and not in the same room as _Sour Wolf_. Stiles trusts the animal enough not to harm him, but he's not as assured with the others.

He just doesn't want to risk, is all.

“Or, if you want to go upstairs? To my room maybe?” Erica looks at him, apparently considering her choices. Eventually, she ends up choosing Stiles' room. “Cool,” he says. When he notices the girl arching an eyebrow at that, he just waves it off and leads the girl upstairs. Before he would follow her on the stairs, though, he doesn't forget to turn back and give a warning look to Sour Wolf, who's—

Already tagging along.

“No, buddy, now you go back down and finish eating your pancakes or drinking your water, or whatever, but you're definitely not—” he says, voice almost a whisper. While he's mid-sentence, Sour Wolf gracefully ignores him and struts up on the stairs with ease. “—going upstairs,” Stiles finishes, but it is lent to deaf ears. When he enters his room, the picture of Erica sitting on his bed welcomes him as the girl is staring at Sour Wolf with a mixture of skeptical and distrustful look. “Do you want anything? Something to drink, maybe?”

Erica looks at him. “Are you sure your dog is actually a _dog_ at all?”

“Well,” Stiles starts, lifting both of his shoulders up in a long shrug. “Half dog, half wolf hybrid, in fact,” he finds himself saying. He also pays extra attention to make sure his sentence comes out as affirmative and not a question. Erica hums, apparently deep in thought while she sneaks a few more glances openly at Sour Wolf. “I can tell him to go out if you want.”

“Yeah, I'd definitely love that,” Erica nods in agreement. However, Sour Wolf has other thoughts on his own, it would seem—before Stiles could even start nearing him, he growls. Not at Stiles, but at Erica.

“Hey, calm down. I don't want a drama, okay? If you're not leaving, then quit snarling and just watch us in silence,” Stiles orders, strongly hoping that the wolf will obey despite the fact that it's an independent animal that listens only to its Alpha male. Stiles goes round the animal in order to grab his laptop from his desk. His palm itches to stroke the wolf's head, but he comes to the conclusion that it doesn't deserve it and also, it might think what it is doing right now is okay. But it's not, _so_ not okay on so many levels.

Stiles makes himself comfortable on his bed, too, next to Erica. He opens the document he's already started to do, and hands the laptop to the blonde to let her read it. It's not much, so she finishes in half a minute.

“It's good,” she says, throwing a few curled strands of golden hair over her shoulder awhile, baring her neck to Stiles. Stiles has a little knowledge in body language, and so, he's aware that it means she trusts him. The word 'flirting' is as far away from his mind as it possibly can be, but then she squirms closer to him and practically plasters their sides together, her hand coming to rest on his forearm. Stiles' mouth opens, maybe to ask a question, maybe to say something, even he isn't sure which one, but he's beaten to react first.

There is a low, threatening growling sound rumbling somewhere in Sour Wolf's chest.

Stiles shushes the animal, but the whole time that Erica spends at the Stilinski house passes by like this—whenever she makes a move that causes her to get closer to Stiles' body, Sour Wolf snarls at her. When there is only Stiles and the wolf in the house again, Stiles turns to the animal.

“Look,” he starts. “She and I have to work on a History project together about World War II. There is _literally_ no way to do it if we don't meet up every now and then, okay? You shouldn't have been so rude. She was here to help. Besides,” he says, cowering down in front of the wolf, “I'm not yours. And you're not mine, either. I—”

He's cut off by Sour Wolf, who apparently takes advantage of Stiles crouching, because it enters his personal space again for the sake of burying its wet, slightly cold nose in the crook of Stiles' neck. After a few ticklish sniffs it huffs in obvious annoyance and nuzzles into the boy again.

Sour Wolf doesn't stop until it finds everything right again.

~

The next day Stiles decides to visit his favourite café after school, partly because he hasn't been there for a long time and partly because he wants to make sure he doesn't disturb his Dad while he's asleep to collect enough strength for himself for the upcoming night shift. Stiles is sipping on his black tea slowly, just letting his thoughts wander anywhere they want.

Then he catches a glimpse of a dark shape in his peripheral vision.

He knows who that is even before he would turn his head fully in his direction—the not-surely-is-a-stalker guy, of course. He's sitting not too far away from Stiles, and he's on the phone. Thanks to Stiles' short attention span, he quickly becomes oblivious to the fact he's upright _gawking_ at the hunk.

In a matter of a few seconds, after he can concentrate on something else besides the man's looks, Stiles discovers he can easily hear what he's saying. After this revelation, he's all ears.

“—the house in the preserve is mine, but I can't take responsibility for who goes there and what they do there. I'm not there all the time.”

A house in the preserve? Rather the burnt-down remnants of a _once_ stunning house. Of course Stiles knows everything about it, he was lucky enough to put a hand on those files when his Dad wasn't paying attention (but it can be thanked mostly to his undoubtedly flawless ninja skills, okay?).

Then it strikes him.

This guy owns that territory? The Hale family's territory? Stiles almost chokes on his tea.

His stalker is _Derek Hale_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is the last chapter for basing the plot. The next chapter is going to contain a little more action, as now the story itself is going to start :)
> 
> I hope you're awaiting it.
> 
> Comments and opinions are welcome as always!


	4. Russian Roulette

The wolf is staring at him with a face Stiles assumes is simultaneously amused and surprised.

In the past few days, the slightest of fog appeared. It's present during the days, too, and by the time nights come, it gets lightly thicker—it is now a permanent ingredient of the people's lives in Beacon Hills.

Also, there is another permanent fixture in Stiles' life, which he got just a few hours ago, after he left the café, and that is the reason why Sour Wolf is upright _staring_ at him. The staring-thing is something that's almost in the terms of 'habit' between the two of them by now.

“Don't make that face,” Stiles groans. “I know I look weird, and now my nerd character is complete and all, but please, _please_ could you just quit staring so openly?” he asks, taking off his glasses in order to rub his eyes. His glasses are the types which one would call hipster with big lenses and a thick black frame. It fits Stiles' face seamlessly, nonetheless. He places them back on, then waves for the wolf to come in. “My Dad is asleep, and if we're not loud, he won't wake before his due time,” Stiles informs Sour Wolf with a playful wink and a cheeky lopsided smile.

He sets down two bowls for the animal like he always does. He provides the wolf with food, because he wants to make sure it's loaded enough and won't be starving. During the time they spent together somehow the two of them grew gradually closer and closer, to the point where Stiles couldn't imagine his life without seeing Sour Wolf sporadically.

In the end, he decides to be a partner in eating and embraces some food on his own, too. There are still some leftover pancakes from yesterday, and he thinks those with blueberry jam will be a perfect choice to have. When both of them is finished, Stiles loads the bowls and the plate into the dishwasher, then they head upstairs, straightly to Stiles' room.

He plays _Kryptonite_ by Three Doors Down to have a soft background noise, and despite all of his frantic protests, Sour Wolf ends up on his bed. Claiming it never mind now, he hops on his bed, too, and lets the wolf to rest its head in his lap. While he's stroking and scratching the area behind the animal's ears, he babbles about Derek. Stiles admits that whenever he hears the song _Casual Sex_ he can't help but think of Derek, because of reasons. (Partly because some lines fit Derek pretty well, and partly because Stiles wants some things mentioned in the song to actually happen between them.) He also tells Sour Wolf about how nosy he is—he knows everything about his Dad's current investigation case and also, he's secretly working on it. So basically all in all, he's just being the usual Stiles Stilinski.

Stiles shoos Sour Wolf out of the house before his Dad would wake up. After the sheriff is gone for his night shift as well, Stiles makes a beeline back to his room to take care of his now mud-spotted sheets, adds a few hundred words to his story, then changes into his red tracksuit. Due to the cold, he doesn't fail to remember to also put on his windbreaker jacket. He puts his flashlight and HTC in its pocket before leaving the house and going for his Jeep.

There is a light fog floating above the pavement, making the street lights vaguer and fainter. Stiles drives cautiously with all of the Jeep's lights on, though the picture he gets through the windshield is still dull. During the past days, after collecting the information he needed, he's been thinking of his Dad's current case to help the police department. Despite he knows this job comes with risking your life instantly, he doesn't want his father to be in danger, and this serial killer seems to be really hard to catch.

He arrives to the boards those say 'Beacon Hills Preserve' and 'No entry after dark'. Just as Stiles parks his Jeep and jumps out of the vehicle, the rain starts dripping lightly. Stiles traces his gaze over the macabre-looking forest that sends an amount of chills down his spine. Somehow the haze looks thicker on the territory of the preserve, giving the whole scene an eerie thrill as it's sneaking among the slender, tall trees in the dark.

“Let's do this,” he says, just encouraging himself, really. He takes off his glasses and puts them back into the Jeep, then fishes out the flashlight from his pocket and switches it on. He uses its strong light to illuminate the crust of the trees he passes and also to make sure he won't stumble into anything while walking. He remembers that a body was found somewhere around here, and his purpose is to find possible tracks or evidences those were ignored by the crime scene investigators.

Some rustling noises are constantly accompanying him on his trip, but he doesn't pay as much attention to them as he probably should, considering there are other living creatures in the woods besides him—him, who is technically an intruder right at the moment. He walks for a long time. Stiles isn't sure how far he's gone from the entry with the chains and warning boards signifying it, nor how deeply he is in the woods. The damp clouds of his puff of airs surround his silhouette momentarily, until they either float upwards or he passes them.

He comes to a stop when he notices a few leafs and ferns plastered down against the forest floor. If Stiles laid down, he's sure he would fit in there perfectly, being the shape formed among the wet autumn leafs is clearly a human's. He crouches down and crisscrosses the bright white spot of light over the surface, searching for something—searching for a potential evidence.

Something deep in him, in the farthest corner of his mind is continuously chanting that he should leave as soon as possible. Like, right the fuck now. But he's known for being a stubborn, independent individual who hates it when nothing happens around him, and thus, seeks excitement. And what is this if not a perfect way to gain some excitement?

Besides, no killer visits the scene of the murder twice.

He stands up again and walks a few more meters, following a track that he suspects to have connections to the victim. However, soon it's cut off and he's left there with no clue where to go from there. Stiles is forced to halt yet again, and he uses his flashlight to search for other signs. All of a sudden a jolt of coldness strikes him and causes his whole body to shiver. To Stiles' relief, he finds a beanie in one of the numerous pockets of the windbreaker.

“Oh my God, I've been looking for his thing for ages!” he chuckles with a little disbelief at his fortune, but doesn't waste any more time to put the beanie on.

He fixes all the layers of clothes he has on himself before continuing to wander around, searching for other tracks he could follow. The only problem is there aren't any that belongs to the victim. The ones he finds are casual signs in the forest, all of them made by animals.

A twig snaps not too afar from him, but Stiles remains ignorant to these rustles.

Stiles focuses his amber gaze firmly on the things in his direct environment—the moss-covered crust of the trees, the floor that is golden due to the fallen autumn leafs, the ferns those peek out from under the rainy leaf-carpet and—

The cracking sound comes again. In the dead silence of the woods it's deafeningly audible and gives Stiles the feeling that it echoes among the trees. He turns in the direction of the source, but he can see nothing apart from the dark slender trees and an animal.

_Wait._

As far as Stiles knows, _no animal_ is able to walk on their hind feet. He points the spot of light exactly at the moving shadow, then suddenly a lot of things happen at once.

Stiles isn't sure that it's the killer who starts running toward him, or he's the one to turn around first to escape, but from a certain angle, it doesn't even matter at all. What does matter, though, is the fact that the dangerous individual, the _murderer_ is _chasing him_. The irony of the situation is that he came here to help the police to catch this person, but the only thing he achieved is being in danger to life.

If he didn't have to be running for his life, he would definitely yell at himself.

But he's going to die if he stops and Stiles' body is literally shaking while he's running due to the sudden rush of adrenaline that has flooded his circulatory system. The white spot of light is zigzagging back and forth over the trees frantically, and the rain is still dripping from the purplish night sky—it's not at all as harsh as it was during the previous part of the day, however, the influence of it is still present within the woods of which Stiles is notified about when he slips on a few wet leafs.

_Shit!_

He exclaims in his head and lets loose a litany of obscene curses loudly. The killer is aware of his exact position anyway, so what's the point in trying to hide any more? As Stiles' luck would have it, he managed to slip on the top of a steep hill. Once he arrived to the lower level, he starts running again, not caring about the fresh injuries he was given by several twigs, and he's pretty sure his ankle is sprained. In a matter of a few minutes it will have been swollen.

Stiles keeps running, but he's clearly not as fast as he was before he rolled down on the hill. He's limping due to his injured ankle, and the rustling behind him is getting dangerously loud, signifying him that the killer is coming closer and closer to him. Utter fear is eating at his brain, and the only thing he can think of is how grateful he is for the adrenaline boost that soothes his pain and enhances his stamina.

It turns out not to be enough, though.

In the next second he's grabbed by the windbreaker jacket and hauled backwards only to be tackled down face-first against the leafs as a scream erupts from his vulnerable being. His face is pinned against the wet, mucous-like surface while the rest of him is soaked and covered in water by the cool raindrops. In the corner of his eye he catches a glimpse of the flash of a blade and after that the most he can do is squeezing his eyes shut tightly while his mind is brainstorming ideas of ways he could escape.

But none of them seems to be effective enough. And there is an eerie, pointed, _sharp_ pressure against his back now, it hovering over the spot where his heart is supposed to be beating. Stiles can't bring himself to open his eyes, and he clenches his fists and jaw in preparation to the inescapable death.

Then there is a harsh hitch and the pressure is gone.

His eyes fly open immediately and he sits up without thinking. His brain registers that he still has the flashlight in his hands, and after giving it a few smacks, it comes to life again, providing enough brightness for Stiles to come aware what the Hell has just happened.

The white spot reveals a picture of a man and an animal wrestling with each other. The animal is snarling and biting forward in attempt to harm the murderer—and Stiles can tell it's not merely for threatening. The animal _does want to kill_. And the more Stiles watches the two shapes fighting, the more obvious it becomes to him through the haze over his brain that it is Sour Wolf who saved the day—who saved him. Sour Wolf saved his life.

The thought of running away doesn't occur to him at all. He becomes more or less conscious about his surroundings again when the killer is far gone, and Sour Wolf is snuggling into him. It also turns out that ominous snuggling is actually checking on his condition. Sour Wolf is examining him to be assured about his well-being.

It warms his heart.

The sudden typhoon of feelings washes over him and without having to think about it, his arms fly around the wolf's body and holds it close to himself. Stiles is whispering against the soft, damp fur while stroking it in a soothing manner, even though it is him who would need comfort at the moment.

“Oh my God, thank you so much,” he croaks out. Only when he releases Sour Wolf from his embrace, does he realize that his face isn't moist just because of the rain, but also because of his own tears. The wolf licks his face, apparently trying to get rid of the trails of the salty drops. “Let me check you,” Stiles whispers. “You may be hurt,” he points out, but the animal doesn't let itself. Also, Stiles recognizes how badly his hands are shaking—as if he had a panic attack.

It turns out it was a profoundly bad idea to remind himself of the possibility of that, because the next and _only_ thing he feels is hollow fear of death and the inability to breathe. He chokes out some incomprehensible words, then he can feel a modest, almost shy pressure against the middle of his chest.

It's Sour Wolf.

The wolf is nosing over his heart, and when it restarts to do the usual neck-fixation thing that involves rubbing its soft muzzle meekly into the crook of Stiles' neck, somehow the panic attack is gradually going away. In a matter of a few seconds, it's entirely gone.

They stay there for at least ten more minutes until Stiles organizes himself mentally. He thinks he can prepare himself to the thought of having to drive while Sour Wolf walks him back to his Jeep. He opens it and picks up his glasses before crouching down in front of the animal. He puts his warm palm onto its head and strokes the fur there.

“Thank you so much, Sour Wolf,” he says, offering a weak, weary lopsided smile. “You're my hero.” The wolf opens its mouth with its tongue lolling out in something Stiles considers is a grin, then after a brief consideration Stiles leans close and places a long, gingerly grateful kiss on Sour Wolf's head. “See you tomorrow, buddy.”

The wolf nods in agreement.

Stiles drives away, however, he's still in a daze which is probably the remainder symptom of his previously increased adrenaline level. He drops by a tiny grocery store to buy a box of green tea for himself to even his nerves out a bit.

He's standing in front of the tea supply of the store, basically just staring at the colourful boxes, when a low voice speaks next to him. The system error in his head is so serious he doesn't realize who the familiar voice belongs to.

“You can't decide which you want?” Stiles looks at the other. His face has been expressionless since the extra amount of adrenaline vanished from his blood and he's sure it's going to be a living Hell for him to drive home with his injured ankle. It's unbelievably hurting now that there is no natural painkiller in his body. When he sees the individual, though, who is trying his best to start a conversation with him, all of these thoughts are out of the window right the fuck now. Nevertheless, he manages to answer in a calm tone.

“No, it's just...” he shakes his head. Every inch of his body is in pain, he's peevish, grouchy, anxious and the only thing he wants right now is to clunk out on his bed already. “I just need a fucking painkiller and something to soothe my nerves, is all.” The other hums a little, then extends his hand toward the boxes of teas to pick up one filled with camomile tea.

“Here,” he says. “It should calm you down.” Stiles manages a wry smile as he reaches for the box. As he takes it, their skin brushes momentarily and for some reason Stiles feels like it's not the first time they touch each other, but he's too tired and impatient to wrap his head around this matter of a fact any further. The man ducks his head a little, apparently searching for something in Stiles' features. When the teenager looks at him, into his eyes, which _also look familiar_ for some reason, the man asks, “Did something happen?”

Stiles considers his answer for a while before shaking his head. “No. But thanks, I guess.”

“You look awful,” the other points out.

“Excuse me, then quit looking at me,” Stiles snaps. The words are out of his mouth before he could think twice about it. He sighs deeply. “I'm sorry. I'm just... not in the mood?” The man nods in sympathy. Stiles appreciates it.

“It's okay,” he says. “Is there anything I can do for you, though?” Stiles looks down at himself—muddy from head to toe, several scratches on his palms and the lower areas of his forearms, and he can't put his weight on his left foot due to his sprained ankle which he should probably get checked. He exhales a long breath anxiously, ending up shaking his head again in denial. However, when he starts limping to the cash register, the warm presence of the other is next to him—it hasn't occurred to him how low his body temperature got. “Let me help you out. As far as I can tell you can use a helping hand or two.” Stiles makes a face at him, but apparently, he's too exhausted to keep protesting.

Instead, he just gives in.

Since the man already wrapped an arm around his waist, all he has to do is lean into his strong, firmly toned body. It provides Stiles with the feeling of _being safe_. Maybe for the first time since he abandoned Sour Wolf. After dealing with the payments, they head outside. Thankfully the man is patient enough not to rush Stiles at all.

“Are you cold?” he asks suddenly, drawing Stiles out of his train of thoughts.

“What?” Stiles asks a little confused. Instead of an answer, though, the other simply lets go of him and takes off his black leather jacket for the sake of putting it around Stiles' shoulders. It would seem he knew well that Stiles would protest against this idea, too, if he repeated the question.

“I'll drive you home,” he says in a determined tone. Stiles would most likely say otherwise to that as well, if he actually cared the slightest about his surroundings. The man leads Stiles to an impressive black car and sits him on the passenger seat before hopping in on the other side. By the time he's in, Stiles has already made himself comfortable, his head resting against the door of the Camaro with his eyes shut and inhaling the man's scent from the jacket. He eyes Stiles for a short while before saying, “I'm Derek Hale, by the way.”

“Stiles Stilinski,” he mumbles drowsily.

Stiles is lulled asleep during the drive. He vaguely registers that they come to a stop somewhere and he's picked up in bridal style, but after that the only thing he has among his memories is vacancy—nothing more than a black void.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry, but I'm in love with Stiles in glasses, so I had to give him a pair! I hope you'll understand.
> 
> Like I promised, I added some action to this chapter. And also, a little more Sterek :) I think it's safe to say that it's no surprise that these are going to be more frequent from now on.
> 
> If anyone wanted to listen to the songs mentioned in the chapter, you can find them here: [Kryptonite](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tpl6ncyxLGw) and [Casual Sex](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ho9bGfknIa0). (one more thing: just replace 'she' to 'he' in the lyrics of _Casual Sex_ , and then I think it's easy to figure out which parts Stiles wants to come true)


	5. Chelsea Smile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank _everyone_ for all the comments, kudos, bookmarks and subscriptions this story has gotten so far! It makes me really happy to know that you enjoy what I write. ;-;
> 
> So again, thank you. Really. I'm grateful. ♥
> 
> Unbeta'd. Enjoy chapter 5! :)
> 
> And also: HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

The soft morning beams of the Sun reach Stiles' face, warmly brushing over his pale skin and the constellations of moles. He blinks his eyes open sleepily, and props himself up on his elbows slowly, looking around in his room as though it was an unfamiliar place to him. When something golden coloured falls on the sheet, Stiles instinctively reaches for his hair only to touch some more dry leafs stuck in there. His beanie also has some in it.

Then he remembers everything that happened last night.

Stiles doesn't want to think about why he trusted his stalker— _stalker_ , for fuck's sake!—, and why he's being so ridiculous that he's not really willing to take off the jacket. Because yes, he slept in Derek's black leather jacket, and he should be blamed for nothing because of obvious reasons, which include Derek being the most attractive hunk Stiles has ever seen. Oh yeah, he's not going to repent sleeping in it.

After he gave himself a few minutes just to organize himself a little, he migrates to the kitchen, still in his drowsy daze. Fresh, hot, coaxingly steaming camomile tea is awaiting him when he goes downstairs, he realizes perplexedly. Just when he sips once or twice from it, does he realize that it couldn't have been his Dad to make this, since he hasn't arrived from work yet. The revelation strikes him like a lightening—Derek Stalker Hale fucking _stayed the night_ and looked after him. Also, this is the first time that it occurs to him that his pain is entirely gone.

Somehow the tea tastes sweeter now.

Stiles takes a seat at the table for the sake of thinking everything through in careful detail. Okay, so first, the lack of questions from Derek's part about what had happened could mean he was just considerate, but discretion doesn't explain _how_ Derek knew his address nor how he knew where he keeps his set of keys, nor where his bedroom is.

And there is a question that bugs him the most: _why did he trust Derek at all?_ After all, for all he knows the guy has been stalking him (at least as far as Stiles can tell it couldn't have been mere coincidence for Derek to show up wherever he went), and that was the very first time they talked. No one trusts a stranger— _stalker_ , even—, at least not if they aren't crazy. Stiles swallows hard.

__Maybe Derek followed him home a few times. Or maybe he simply knows where the sheriff lives. After all, Stiles introduced himself to Derek, so by the quite _rare_ name 'Stilinski', Derek had to come to the conclusion that Stiles has to do something with the sheriff. And now they are officially over the 'we don't know each other but I know your name and you stalk me'-phase and on the level of 'acquaintances', which Stiles is the happiest about, because now he won't be creeping himself out._ _

__He ducks his head, closes his eyes and inhales Derek's intoxicating scent from the jacket—yep, Stiles is definitely content and rolling around in bliss at the moment. A hint of a smile on his face is also signifying this fact._ _

__~_ _

__“This?” Stiles asks, tugging modestly at the jacket as he's looking at Scott. (Stiles may or may not be acting smug about the piece of clothing.) He obviously knows which jacket Scott meant, being he only has one on, but he enjoys teasing his friend from time to time. “Derek Hale's.”_ _

__“Did you say _Derek Hale_?” Scott asks, giving Stiles a look like Stiles was lunatic or if he's ever been wrong about anything. He responds to Scott with a scowl on his own before nodding._ _

__“No, you misheard me. I said Synyster Gates,” Stiles snaps._ _

__“But he's—”_ _

__“I know who he is, Scott,” Stiles sighs in a resigning manner. Scott always misses the point, and Stiles should seriously quit putting any effort into making Scott get any of his sarcastic hints. “You just acted like I was talking about a rock star.”_ _

__“No, it's just...” Scott starts, but ends up trailing off. He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, warily worrying the flesh while examining Stiles' gestures, trying to read any accessible information out of them. When he realizes there's no use, he gives up on trying with a long exhale of air. “It's just... he's not nice to anyone. And that's the less harsh version of interpreting it.”_ _

__Stiles hums, apparently thinking it through as he curls his fingers into the hook of the cup and lifts it up to his face. Ever since Derek offered the camomile tea to him, he seems to be caught upon it—if the fact that he's drinking it right now is of any indication. As he swallows the hot substance he can't help but think about this morning's sweet surprise. Any okay, that sounded _really_ weird. Derek is still a stalker, after all. The only difference is that now they are officially acquaintances. Or _something_. (Probably the latter.)_ _

__“So?” Stiles averts his gaze from the surface of the desk in order to dart it at Scott along with a frown._ _

__“So what?” Scott shrugs._ _

__“So what about Derek? How do you two know each other?” Stiles thinks about it for a short while. He immediately concludes that it's best to collectively leave out the part where he recognized Derek being _everywhere_ before they had an actual face-to-face conversation. It's for everyone's good—Scott won't be freaked out and Stiles will be saved from his friend's monologue about how he should be watching out for himself a little more. Not that he could have approached Derek to tell him to leave him alone. He wouldn't have had any evidence to prove his theory about Derek stalking him, and he didn't want to embarrass himself._ _

__“We met during grocery shopping last night.” When Scott's eyebrows furrow, Stiles instantly repeats the sentence in his head, his mind running a mile a minute to figure out what sounded bad to Scott._ _

__“What did you do in the town last night?” Oh. Stiles should have known better than to blurt out anything in connection with time. Apparently his filter hasn't developed yet. He makes a mental note to work on that._ _

__“Definitely what I did,” he says as if it should have been obvious for Scott. The boy is giving Stiles an unimpressed face._ _

__“You know, it's pretty cool when you use that against Coach and all, but I expect you to give _me_ proper answers.” Maybe Scott has a point there._ _

__Stiles sighs. “I wanted to help my Dad out a little,” he starts, idly playing with the rim of his cup, stubbornly staring at it instead of looking back at Scott. “so I might have gone out into the woods last night.”_ _

__Scott's eyes widen, and before anything else, Stiles feels a sharp pain spreading in his shin._ _

__“Hey, what was that for?” he exclaims, because of course Scott had to kick his _left_ leg that recovered just a while ago._ _

__“Because of you being reckless!” Scott chides him. “I know you're worried about your Dad, but imagine what would have happened if the killer was there! What do you think your father would do if you—” Scott's rambling is cut off when he recognizes how guilty Stiles' face turned. “What does that expression supposed to mean?” he demands an answer in a strict tone. Stiles makes an attempt to act it out as if nothing happened, but fails miserably at it._ _

__“Okay, so... I might have met the killer,” he admits slowly, making a grimace at Scott that he usually gives his Dad when he asks him about what he should expect at parent's meeting. Scott's jaw literally drops and his eyebrows are up somewhere near his hair line. “Don't make that face, I'm here, alive, safe and sound! Well, apart from my leg that you kicked so nicely.” Scott doesn't look convinced, let alone appreciative of Stiles' sarcastic wit, and he's about to say something, but Stiles definitely doesn't want to hear any of it so he takes the initiative and drops another subject. “So, I watched _Star Wars_ the other day.”_ _

__“Cool, but—” Scott obviously tries to turn the subject back to the previous one, however, Stiles' skills in avoiding something are pretty much better than Scott's. (Apart from avoiding the murderer, but that's another story.)_ _

__“Have you seen it yet?” Scott's just staring at him, and that makes Stiles huff. “You have to watch it now, man. I want to have an all night long conversation with you about it.”_ _

__“If you tell me how you survived, I will watch the movie,” Scott promises. Stiles makes a deadpan face at him, but ends up sighing and giving in._ _

__“I got some help.”_ _

__“Help? In the deserted woods? At night? From who?”_ _

__“That should be enough,” Stiles says in a determined tone. And he really doesn't want to talk about this topic any more._ _

__Thankfully the universe seems to be on his side, because he's saved from Scott's further inquisitional questions by someone entering the café. Stiles can't help the involuntary smile that shines up on his face by seeing the individual, who—who spots him as well almost immediately. Stiles waves to him, still with that huge shit-eating grin, and stands when the other is close enough to the table to be greeted._ _

__“Hey, Derek,” he says, extending his hand for a shake. Derek accepts it and _wow_ a wave of electricity zigzagged through his body the second their skin met. Stiles is in the middle of his thoughts, wondering if he was the only one to feel that, but he's cut off when Derek easily releases his hand in order to shake hands with Scott, too._ _

__“Scott McCall,” he says. Derek looks back at Stiles, and as far as he can tell, there is an unasked question in his green eyes._ _

__“My best friend,” Stiles adds. Derek's gaze seems to be... relieved? Derek is fucking _relieved_ by hearing this? How come? Stiles can't wrap his head around it any further, though, since Scott is giving him a somewhat angry look on his own. Oh, he didn't want Derek to know that little detail? But Stiles wanted him to know that they are not dating or anything, so he just gives Scott a smirk before turning back to Derek._ _

__“Wanna join us?” Stiles can see from the corner of his eye that Scott's jaw drops, but he doesn't care about it. Hell, he has a chance to talk to Derek. Properly. Without him being in a miserable condition, covered in mud and several injuries and looking like being scared to death—or being Death himself._ _

__“Are you sure?” Derek asks, looking back and forth between the two boys. Stiles beats Scott to answer the question, not sure if Scott would let him stay._ _

__“Yes, a 100 percent sure, dude,” he says. Derek snickers before taking the seat next to Stiles'. Scott gives Stiles a knowing look, but Stiles glares and makes a face at him, trying to convey the message 'quit doing whatever you're up to and just shut up and be nice'. Thankfully he obeys._ _

__When Stiles looks at Derek, he can see that the man is eyeing his cup of tea with a vague hint of a smile hiding on his lips. Stiles' pulse picks up and in a matter of seconds he can feel the familiar heat that spreads around on both of his cheeks, giving them a rosy colour. He adjusts his glasses, which is a new habit of his whenever he's nervous, then instinctively tries to hide his blush by grabbing the clothing on him which is—which is _of course Derek's jacket_. He groans and gives up on this tilt of windmills that he will obviously not win, and that is the time when it hits him._ _

__Derek hasn't said anything about his jacket yet._ _

__For a second, Stiles thinks about not mentioning it at all, hoping that he might be allowed to have the jacket on himself for a bit longer, like, forever, but he's also aware that he's bound to give it back sooner or later. And it's better to get over it sooner than later. It will hurt less. (Or probably not.) It's better to forestall and go for the kill._ _

__“I haven't returned your jacket yet,” he points out the obvious, already moving to take the material off. Derek shakes his head._ _

__“It's okay. It can stay for a little longer,” he says. Stiles is just staring at him, perplexed. Scott doesn't differ from him in his reaction at all. Apparently Derek noticed it, because then he explains. “The weather is chilly, and you don't have anything else on you besides my jacket. I can live without it for a while.”_ _

__Stiles doesn't mention that he has a jumper in the back of his Jeep, merely nods at Derek in agreement. If it's okay with Derek, then why should he push the subject? He doesn't have a reason to do that, except for the fact he has, but never mind. He snuggles back into the jacket contently, with a dumbly blissful smile on his face. Thankfully Derek doesn't see this, because he's busy ordering his coffee, but on the other hand, Scott does notice. He eyes Stiles with an arched eyebrow, but Stiles just shrugs it off._ _

__“How many time do you have?” Scott asks, settling with another subject._ _

__“Where do you have to go?” Derek interjects, seemingly being genuinely interested. Stiles shrugs again._ _

__“I'm meeting Erica in a while,” he responds as if it wasn't a big deal. And it isn't, at least not to him—but Derek's expression seems to harden. Stiles opens his mouth to ask him about it, but persuades himself otherwise. After all, what could he possibly say? “The other half of our project is not done yet. We want to finish it today, so we will only have to see each other once more to clear it up.” For some reason he felt obligated to explain it to Derek—and he did, in an indirect way._ _

__Why does he think Derek is interested in him in the first place? Or that Derek is interested in guys in general?_ _

__“Good for you,” Scott cries out. “Jackson isn't helping me out the least.”_ _

__Stiles chuckles. “I know, man, don't expect anything good from him.”_ _

__“Tell me about it.”_ _

__~_ _

__Nearly two months pass and it's almost the end of October. Stiles develops a habit which consists of going to school, then studying at home and going for a run afterwards with his permanent companion, Sour Wolf. He devotes time to Scott, too, when he needs bro-time or simply when they haven't talked in a long while. He also returned Derek's jacket to him after one (and a half) more week._ _

__Right now he's preparing for running. Thankfully he has his autumn holiday now, so he could skip the second and third part of his routine. The only difference from previous times is that Sour Wolf isn't waiting for him at the entrance of the preserve. Stiles is taken aback due to this realization. The wolf _always_ runs with him, and there haven't been an exception before. Not until now._ _

__Stiles gets over it, though, eventually, and plugs his headphones in his ears to blare his music during running. He does either that, or, when Sour Wolf is with him, he listens to the noises the two of them make. But when he's alone, it's different—it's upright boring._ _

__The golden orange beam of the setting Sun breaks through the bare branches of the trees, reflecting sharply on the ground that is covered by dry brown autumn leaves, making them appear to be on fire. Stiles runs pass the trees, his guts shivering on instinct due to what happened a few weeks ago. He knows well that without Sour Wolf's intervention, he wouldn't be running now._ _

__His throat tightens at that thought, but he can't dig himself any deeper into it, because he recognizes a black spot daintily weaving its way through the labyrinth of trees. Stiles hiccups back a shriek, then the next thing he knows is that he stumbles in a root and elegantly lands face-first on the ground with his arms stretched out in front of him—like one of those bad slow-motion scenes in the films where the character embarrasses himself. He lifts his head and spits out some leafs from his mouth with a disgusted expression, mentally yelling at himself. He hears footsteps approaching him, and he's trying his best to convince himself that it's not the killer, after all, who would try to kill someone during daytime—_ _

__“Are you okay?” Stiles' eyes widen and he turns around in a split second, propping himself on one elbow._ _

__“Derek?” he asks as if he couldn't believe his own eyes. But the man is there, smiling at him meekly, and offering a hand to help him up. He takes it in an awe, almost slipping again, but apparently that's nothing Derek's strength couldn't take. However, said strength can do nothing against the blush on his cheeks, which makes him scowl in frustration which—which just makes him blush even deeper. Vicious circle to Stiles, apparently._ _

__And the fact that half of his headphones fell from his ear, revealing to Derek what he's listening to, isn't helping him to calm down, either._ _

__“Um,” he mumbles, already fishing his phone out from the pocket of his tracksuit. Stiles stops the music and an awkward silence follows it._ _

__“What are you doing here?” Derek asks, taking a step closer to Stiles, his eyes constantly gazing the teenager. He's opening his mouth to answer, but is caught off-guard when Derek reaches toward his face. His heart rate picks up, and he's sure the blush is back, but then it turns out that Derek _just_ wants to get rid of the leafs those got stuck in his hair when he gracefully fell. He clears his throat and averts his amber irises to look at the moss-covered crust of a random tree. “This is private property,” Derek says in softly. His tone is gentle, not chiding nor harsh the least._ _

__“A killer is also an intruder on your territory. You should get rid of _threats_ , not harmless human beings like myself,” Stiles points out. Derek snorts and chuckles silently, shaking his head fondly at Stiles._ _

__“How about running together?” Derek offers._ _

__“As in terms of now, or—” Stiles asks, cocking his head to the side like a cat. Derek presents him with a half smile._ _

__“As in terms of making it a habit between the two of us,” he says. Stiles can't believe his ears, his mind settling on how Derek used 'us', however, miraculously he can manage out an answer._ _

__“Oh, I'd love to, but I'm afraid I have to say no. I don't want Sour Wolf to be jealous,” Stiles says, but as soon as the second sentence is out of his mouth, he wants to shoot himself. Derek frowns._ _

__“Who's that 'Sour Wolf' of yours?”_ _

__Since his brain doesn't supply him with a better idea, Stiles ends up answering, “My dog.” The smile is back on Derek's face, and fuck, it shouldn't be so charming._ _

__“I'm sure it wouldn't mind if you ran with me sometimes.” Instead of agreeing, Stiles finds himself fighting back._ _

__“Sour Wolf's a male,” Stiles says, earning a confused look from Derek. He starts to regret his lack of filter right away, but there's no backing off now. So he rambles on. “He's a male, so call him appropriately. Sour Wolf doesn't go by 'it', okay? He's a really smart, lovable _dog_ , who deserves more respect.” To his surprise and relief, Derek is nodding in an apologetic way._ _

__“Sure, I understand. My mistake,” he says, then repeats his offer. “So I'm sure it wouldn't be a big deal for _him_ if you switched him for me once in a while.” Stiles considers it for a while._ _

__“He's pretty possessive, you know. I'm not sure if—”_ _

__“Just give us a chance,” Derek... begs? Stiles is doing his best to shut out his mind that is yelling (based on his gut instincts) that this sentence was _out of context_. No, no way. But it doesn't change the fact that Stiles can't say no to him. He exhales._ _

__“Okay. That, I can promise.”_ _

__Derek's grin is almost as wide as a Chelsea smile._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Stiles was running, I thought about [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rsrEXwozK-Y) being played. I hope you will like it. (I definitely do, I'm like, addicted to it.)
> 
> I would also like to clarify it now: yes, Derek took Stiles' pain while he was asleep. :)
> 
> Comments and opinions are welcome as always! And thank you for reading:)


	6. Alligator Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for making you wait for so long for this chapter, but as you might know, I posted another one of my works (which you can find [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2738510/chapters/6137522), in case you're interested), and I have been kinda busy with school lately.
> 
> But anyway, it's here now and I hope you'll like it and I also hope it was worth the wait!
> 
> Unbeta'd :)

During the past two months Derek stuck along with Stiles when he went for a run. Sometimes Sour Wolf would go with him, and sometimes Derek, but Stiles noticed that the wolf changed to meet him rather in the evenings, about half an hour after he and Derek parted. In most cases, he was having a bath when the wolf appeared at the outer side of the back door and started scraping on it persistently to notify Stiles about his presence. As a result, Stiles ended up letting him in with just a towel wrapped around his waist with his whole body flushed pink and dripping wet.

The animal would strut straightly to his room then, seizing Stiles' bed from all the places it could have taken. And Stiles would always end up changing into his pyjama in front of the animal before snuggling next to it under the sheets, not minding the aftermath which was to take a shower again in the morning.

Simultaneously, Derek began to show up more, and also, met him quite often, sometimes even offered to pick him up after school. The man explained it with worrying about Stiles' allowance and the amount of money he has to spend on gasoline, and Stiles was pretty suspicious about it being true at all, but he didn't care.

All he cared about was that this way he got to spend most of his afternoons with Derek.

It kept his brain busy enough not to notice how rare Sour Wolf's visits turned. They were put mostly to the evenings and to various lacrosse practices, where the wolf would gaze Stiles from afar, from the shadows of the trees.

Today, Derek rolled his Camaro in front of the school just a few moments before Stiles swung the door open and made a beeline to the impressive black car to join him. Since it is a Friday, they could spend the whole afternoon together without Stiles having to leave early for school duties. They went to the library, a café and for a run afterwards. Stiles demanded to go to the woods, no matter how much Derek was against the idea of running there in the dark. Of course, it wasn't too late, since darkness falls early in December, but he wasn't for the idea too much, being worried for Stiles' safety.

Derek parks his car in front of the Stilinski house, and reduces the volume of the played music until it's nothing more but a background noise. He turns to Stiles to tell his goodbyes and wish the teenager sweet dreams, but the boy beats him to it.

“Wanna come in?”

This is something that puzzles Derek—the two of them has been spending time together for a long time, but they've never got to the part where they actually invite the other to their house. Derek considers it as something too intimate and private.

But that doesn't prevent him from accepting the offer.

“Sure,” he offers a half smile that causes a tiny stutter in Stiles' heartbeat, which echoes back into Derek's body as a clench in his stomach.

They abandon the Camaro and head inside, both of them getting rid of their shoes instantly. Their pairs are muddy due to the forest floor and the damp leafs on it, and none of them want to give Stiles a spare work for later that would include cleaning the tiles and the parquet. Stiles shows Derek to the kitchen and waves a hand in the general direction of the table as he walks to the counter.

“Just sit down, I'll take care of the food,” he says. “What do you want? We've got some leftovers, but I can order something if you want me to.” Derek shakes his head in a subtle movement.

“No, thanks. I'm not hungry.”

“How about a cup of tea or coffee, then?” Derek considers it for a second before nodding a 'yes', giving Stiles his cue to start working. Stiles begins to fumble with the kettle, his back facing Derek. Derek doesn't avert his gaze from the slender shape, only follows each of its movements as it moves over to the stove and places the kettle on it that is now filled with water. In Derek's opinion, the red tracksuit compliments the boy's shape perfectly. “Want something to... clean yourself off with?” Stiles asks when he turns back to look at Derek. Both of their bodies are covered in sweat.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, and Stiles is already inching out of the kitchen, approaching the bathroom. Soon he comes back with two towels in his hands.

“This one is wet,” he explains, lifting the white one. “and this is dry. Figured you'd need both,” he gives the blue towel to Derek, too, then goes back to the counter. Derek starts to rinse his sweat off. “What do you want?” For a second, Derek's heart skips a beat when he almost forgets he has to choose between _two options_ and doesn't have the opportunity to answer whatever he wants.

“I'd prefer tea to coffee now,” he ends up saying, and Stiles nods.

“What kind? I have... um, gimme a second,” he turns around again in favour of roaming over the boxes. “Apple and cinnamon flavoured, green, black, camomile, cherry, strawberry, multivitamin, and peach.”

“Black tea, then,” Derek responds. He doesn't want to soothe his nerves, and black tea will wake him a little. Not that he isn't wide awake now, he just doesn't want to drink a calming tea, either. Stiles serves two cups to the table with the filters already inside of them.

“Anything to flavour it with?” Derek shakes his head in a denial.

“No, never. That ruins black tea.” Stiles chuckles, then goes back to the stove when the kettle notifies him about the water being ready. He pours water into both of their cups, then settles on the chair opposite with Derek's. They stir their teas with the filters in complete silence for a while, their eyes darted at the dark steaming substance in front of them.

“I was thinking,” Stiles starts, hesitant. Derek can hear how his beating heart accelerates, setting a murderously quick pace for itself. Simultaneously, Stiles' cheeks heat up and turn into an adorable pink colour. “We're going to have a match. A lacrosse match,” he adds as an explanation, “a week later. I was wondering...” he trails off, sinking his front teeth into his bottom lip, urging Derek to look down at it involuntarily. His own lips part a little to inhale an amount of air sharply, but at the same time, silently. “So, okay, I know that you used to play basketball at school, and you're into baseball now, and probably you have nothing to do with lacrosse, but I thought that... maybe you'd like to come? And watch? The match?” His sentences are undoubtedly questions, Derek determines. He's still too busy adoring the lip that turns lightly swollen and red due to the biting teeth in it, when he realizes he's supposed to be giving an answer.

“Sure,” he nods. “I'd love to go.” Stiles' face lights up at that, and he presents Derek with a wide, blissful smile that shows all of his teeth. The tension is gone from his shoulders.

“Thanks, dude! You know, I suck at it, but at least you'll have a great time laughing at me. I'm hardly ever first line, but Coach said I was going to play this time, because I suck slightly less than Greenberg.” Derek snickers at it, then looks back down at his cup. Stiles follows suit, however, when Derek raises his pale green gaze again, he finds the boy staring at him with those huge eyes of his. They both laugh this time, and Stiles blushes just a bit. Derek takes another sip of his tea before he takes off his thermal top, making Stiles gawk at his singlet-covered bust for a few seconds before he reminds himself he should probably close his mouth and not stare so openly.

But that's nothing Derek wouldn't notice.

He wouldn't even need his werewolf senses to know Stiles' heart is racing again—the blush spreading on his cheeks is enough indication to be aware of that. Also, at the same time, he realizes that his heart is matching the pace of Stiles'.

Derek can't help the groan when he catches Stiles staring, his eyes—gloriously _darkened_ eyes—following the trail of the towel as Derek slides it over his collarbone and shoulder. Stiles' mouth is hanging open, and the fact he doesn't seem to realize that washes over Derek, practically making him nuts. The only thing he wants right now is to _take_. He has wanted to do that for a long while, and the more time passed the more impatient his wolf has become. But he and Stiles aren't even a couple yet.

Stiles clears his throat and averts his gaze, firmly darting it at the ground and stubbornly refusing to look up anywhere near Derek's shape.

Derek hates it.

“ _Stiles_ ,” he says in a strong voice. Apparently, that's enough to urge the teenager to connect their gazes together again.

“No, I'm—” he starts. “I'm sorry, I... I think I'll go to the bathroom,” he stands before he would finish his sentence. However, Derek seems to have other plans about Stiles leaving the kitchen; he grabs the boy's wrist and turns on his chair to be facing Stiles. His legs are spread just a little more than it could be considered casual. Stiles is still avoiding to look at him, so Derek tugs on his hand gently. As if he was on autopilot, his body suddenly collapses on Derek's, like he forgot about himself momentarily. Stiles' blush deepens, and he starts bubbling something with a lot of apologies involved while trying to stand, but Derek doesn't let him.

So Stiles has to stay put with his legs straddling Derek's thigh.

Derek is just gazing Stiles' face and _neck_ , however, in a short while he has to realize just how close he's leaned to the boy, ultimately unconsciously.

When the quiet word, “Derek?” drops from Stiles' still swollen lips, something snaps in Derek—probably the restraints of his wolf-part—and he dives in, beginning to suck on Stiles' neck with no mercy. Stiles' lips fall open in an unbelievably high-pitched whine, which Derek appears to enjoy a lot, because it only eggs him on to give more. He bites the soft pale flesh, and the thought that there is going to be a mark due to Stiles bruising like a peach, chases out a growl from his possessive self.

He can feel Stiles' long fingers grasping the singlet he's wearing, trying to pull him closer, but he really doesn't mind. Especially the fact that Stiles begins rutting his hips on his thigh in a matter of a few more minutes. That word, Derek's name, is constantly being strewn from his obscene mouth and it seems to start to be too much for Derek to take. Then Stiles' knee reaches his groin, and suddenly all of his sanity evaporates into thin air.

Derek groans into the crook of Stiles' neck, his fingers hook into the neck of the T-shirt he's wearing and pull it lower to expanse more skin. His fingers curl as though they were clawing the teenager's clothing. Stiles' head is still tilted back, letting Derek to do magic on his skin. Derek's brain isn't functioning enough to realize it means Stiles _trusts him_. He can hardly think past Stiles and lust and want and _take_.

His inner wolf is turning furious, bordering being wickedly vicious. It's baring its teeth impatiently in a snarl to chain Stiles to himself completely at last.

And who's Derek to say otherwise to his instincts?

“Stiles,” he manages to say, his tone nearly quieter than a whisper.

“Yeah?” Stiles breathes out in return, his head dropping down again and his eyes opening in order to look Derek in the eye. His palms come up to gently stroke the man's stubbly cheeks. Before he could even give an answer, nor do so much as think of one, Stiles shuts Derek by sealing his lips with his. Derek leans in, biting forward, seeking more of Stiles' touches, apparently. His hands sneak under the boy's shirt and as they slide upwards, the clothing apparel is lifted along with it, too. Stiles lets go of Derek and raises his arms until Derek is done getting rid of the T-shirt.

They are back to kissing again even before the shirt would land.

This time it's more heated and desperate. Derek is drowning in the overwhelming smell of sex around him, and his hands settle on Stiles' hips to pull the boy closer to himself. Stiles' lips are torn away from each other by an approving moan before he ducks his head and returns Derek's favour by attempting to suck a hickey on his neck as well.

Derek gives him enough time to finish that process, but he's beyond impatient, which results in him lifting Stiles' slender body after barely a minute and him beginning to stumble away with the teenager clinging to him tightly. Stiles changes the position of his legs to be wrapped around Derek's waist instead of straddling his thigh still, so Derek's bulge is pressing against his ass while his is plastered to Derek's lower belly.

The next thing he knows is that he's pinned against a wall and Derek's hungry lips are on his neck again. Stiles is constantly panting out hot puffs of breath, he can practically _feel_ the humidity that is forming around them. His arms squeeze around the man's strong neck, pulling him impossibly closer. He has no idea where they are within the house, but he couldn't care less about that. Not when Derek is pleasing him so nicely and his stubble is giving him a stubble-burn, marking him in another way.

For some reason it turns him on to no end, a moan eliciting out from him.

“D-Derek,” he croaks out, his fingers raking through Derek's dark locks of hair. An incoherent growl is everything he's given for an answer. “Find a bed... or a couch... or a rug on the fucking floor, I don't care, just _please_ do _something_!” he pleads, his hips bucking forward and the friction is no nice that he has to do it again. And again. And again, and apparently it is doing something to Derek's restraints, because he hauls Stiles away from the wall with a groan only to shove him to the floor.

Derek is literally snarling against the crook of Stiles' neck, which appears to be another turn-on for the boy. He didn't know he had a thing for such a demeanour. He has a bestiality-kink, he notes in his mind.

“Shit,” he whines, “don't growl, that's too hot.” As if for the sake of teasing, Derek does just that, earning a very pleased and approving moan in return.

As an answer, Derek rasps, “Wanna fuck you like an animal.”

And that, that urges Stiles' body to shiver almost violently and keen in a high pitched-tone. He doesn't quit rutting up against Derek's hot body and into the high temperature he's constantly radiating. As a reply, Derek chants his hips back down in sync with Stiles' frantic movements.

Stiles' eyes flutter closed, him being unable to keep them open, at all. Not when his building orgasm is so sharp and pleasing and fucking _good_ that it's almost making his tears escape and flow down on his cheeks. His mouth is open and his head is tilted backwards, bracing the intoxicating column of his pale neck to Derek, who's coaxed by the sight instantly. His mouth finds the peachy flesh again and his velvet lips massage another vividly coloured mark into it.

“Stiles,” he rasps in a broken tone. He stops sucking on the boy's neck, but leaves his mouth there, so it's hovering over the new saliva-covered spot as he changes to focus his attention on his lower areas—namely, to provide enough friction for both of them. He can't help it, he's close, too, and getting desperately closer and closer to his climax, just like teenager who's sprawled out vulnerably under him, letting him and his beast to do whatever they please.

The thought makes his dick twitch with anticipation, and urges him to shove his crotch against Stiles' more forcefully. A loud moan erupts from both of them, then his mind registers that Stiles is pawing at the hem of his shirt to get rid of that, too. He volunteers to take it off for Stiles.

“Holy shit, look at you,” Stiles croaks out, giving an approving once-over to Derek's body. “You're fucking beautiful. I should just put my shirt back on and hide in a hole for the rest of my life.” Derek chuckles and puts his head directly in front of Stiles' face.

“Shut up,” he commands before kissing the boy with all the pent-up passion he's been carrying within. However, Stiles' hands are on his chest, pushing him away after a few moments. Derek gives him an impatient 'are you fucking kidding me'-look.

“Tell me you have lube here and now, please, _please_ tell me you have so I won't have to leave to go to my room for it.” Derek chuckles at the pleads. He acts as if he were thinking it through, then leans down just so his mouth is next to Stiles' ear. He makes sure his hot breath hits Stiles' skin and his voice is seductively husky as he whispers.

“How about using our precome, so you won't have to leave?” he asks, nosing on the boy's ear. “Huh?” he pushes, then sinks his teeth into the small ear exposed in front of him, getting an impossibly high-pitched keen in return.

“O-okay, I don't care how, just _do it_ or I swear to God I'm—” Stiles is cut off when Derek reaches down and palms on his dick through the fabric of his red trackpants.

“You swear you are...?” Derek teases him, only to make Stiles give him a glare.

“I hate you,” he huffs.

“You love me,” Derek says confidently with conviction, and Stiles really hates him for his smugness and the guts. But not for his body, no.

And okay, maybe he can deal with the cocky jock part of Derek if it means he can have the rest of his personality, too.

But first and foremost, his _body_ , please!

Especially when there aren't any more layers dividing their bare skins from each other and Derek is whispering filth into his ear in a low tone, like “I wanna feel you from the inside. I'm sure you're going to feel awesome. It's your sex I can smell and it's diving me insane.” And it's just a small part of it.

Stiles instinctively spreads his legs when he can feel Derek's fingers wandering around his entrance, one of them easing inside with nothing more than spit helping it on its way. Since Stiles is extremely receptive of him, Derek adds a second and third finger almost immediately after the first one fit inside Stiles completely. Due to Stiles' pleads— _orders_ , basically—, Derek moves them fast and furiously, but pointedly doesn't dare touch the teenager's prostate. When the boy under him is beginning to fall apart, he pulls back ultimately, slicking his own cock, using both of their precome for that.

Derek props himself on his forearms on either sides of Stiles' face. They lock their gazes together, then, after Stiles wrapped his legs around the man's waist, he penetrates the kid.

At first, the starts off as slow and gentle, trying not to hurt Stiles at all, but he's so vocal about his dissatisfaction concerning Derek's slow pace that he loses all of his will to be delicate and just goes for the kill. He sets a murderous velocity, which requires him to grab and hold onto the boy's shoulders. As if he wanted to hide some secret from Stiles, Derek squeezes his eyes shut when he gets dangerously close to his climax, then his already powerful grip tightens even more around the slender bones in the other just when his body gives in to the sneaking orgasm that has been building inside of him for a while.

Throughout his cum, Stiles' body chooses to come, too, and the heightened contractions are just adding to the incredible feelings Derek is experiencing with his now overly sensitive member.

Then, the two of them are just laying boneless on the carpet. Derek makes sure his weight won't be crushing Stiles, so he keeps himself propped up above the boy, not caring about the burning feeling in his forearms he gained due to his wicked rhythm and vicious movements.

Stiles reaches up and cups Derek's cheeks, framing the man's face with his hands. Stiles' mouth forms an involuntary smile when the other nuzzles into his touch fondly, affectionately.

He's attracted, too.


End file.
